


You Can't Always Get What You Want

by EnduringChill



Series: Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Christmas Eve, Christmas Smut, Christmas Tree, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5721460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringChill/pseuds/EnduringChill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Sherlock and John Watson have not met, it is Christmas Eve. Sherlock wants to get high. John wants to die. </p><p>You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you find you get what you need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Always Get What You Want

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221BJen (jcoz1701)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcoz1701/gifts), [Callie4180](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/gifts), [TeaHouseMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/gifts).



> Part two in my overdue Christmas trilogy. This is what happens when inspiration hits midway through December. I went a bit rogue, and I have been taxing my beta team too much. I apologize ahead of time for mistakes, grammatical errors and acts against the English language. They are all mine. 
> 
> Thank you to Callie4180 and 221Bjen for being a sounding board. Thank you to anyone who reads a Christmas fic after Christmas.

“You know, you’re welcome to come by for dinner.” Lestrade zips up his five year old London Fog knock off. “It’s Christmas Eve, after all.”

I pull the collar up around my neck. He means well, but I can’t think of anything I would rather do less. Actually, I can - spend time with my brother. 

“I’ve been working for 57 hours and 23 minutes. I am certainly not good for company, or children.” I wrinkle my nose. 

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?” he asks.

“Sleeping,” I lie. 

It’s not entirely a lie. I am certain that there will be sleep at some point. More like the medically induced stupor to numb everything for a time. 

“Right.” Lestrade nods. I have a feeling that he knows what I will spend my holiday doing. He picks up his head to stare me straight in the eye. “If you change your mind, you can call.”

“Good night, Lestrade.” I nod and step to the kerb to leave the Met behind me. I pause to offer him a gift. “It was really adequate work you’ve accomplished.”

“Prat.” He kicks some freshly fallen snow at me. 

Of course it would have to snow on Christmas Eve. I had to endure all the cooing about how ‘perfect’ it all was to have a white Christmas in London. All this cheer is absolutely hateful. 

As people shuffle by on their merry way to dinners and whatever else these people do, I stroll to the Chinese restaurant five blocks from the Met. I replay the high points of the case I had spent 49 hours and 12 minutes solving. It had started as only a five but blossomed to at least a solid nine, maybe even a nine point four. It's quite exciting when a simple case of infidelity transitions to extortion and attempted murder. But my case high is wearing off and with nothing on the horizon, I can feel the restlessness in my bones. My fingers are twitching as I shake the snow from my hair as I enter the restaurant. 

“Evening Yang.” I nod the lone waiter staring at some Asian programme on the telly above the bar. It's quiet enough that he is bartender and waiter. 

Only two tables are occupied, unusually slow for a Friday but on par with a national holiday. I breeze past both tables.

A couple, together five years. Incredibly unhappy. The woman, mid-thirties, is waiting until after Boxing Day to break up with the man. He, while unhappy, has no intention of ending the relationship. This will only deepen his dependency on alcohol if not push him to something stronger. He hates his job as office administrator and feels guilty for shagging the co-worker, ah, male co-worker in the supply closet. How very appropriate.

The other table, well, I look away. I see everything in one glance. Man in his early 70’s no children. He reads a weathered copy of Jane Eyre, his wife’s favourite. She had passed early in Autumn. 

I shove away the feeling of sympathy and melancholy. I'm not here for dinner, but pass through the kitchen door.

“William!” I call.

The dishwasher jumps from the basin where moments before he had spent four minutes washing the same pot. By his eyes, I see that Billy Wiggins has started to celebrate early.

“Does Chan know you've done that at work?” I glance to the crook of his elbow.

“It’s Christmas. He don't care. You won't talk, will ya?” Hastily, he rolls his sleeves down to his forearm.

“It depends on what you have and what you were going to charge me.” I raise an eyebrow. 

“I have both things you're after.” He smiles hollowly. 

“Is it buy one get one free?” I ask.

He shakes his head nervously. “You know I can't do that, Shez. I got me own boss to answer to.”

“Relax.” I pull some bills from my pocket. “I trust you and that's why I never haggle over prices.”

“I know, Shez. You're one of the good’uns.” He nods. “I can take a few bills off, for Christmas.”

I wink. “I was paid today so I'll give you full price. Will you have the other item I'll need next week?”

“Sure will.” He beams. “I'll be seeing her later.”

When Billy winks, it sends a cold chill to my stomach. The thought of him and a lady friend shooting up to shag is not a pleasant one. Billy had probably been a handsome boy before drugs gripped him. Every time I see him, he is thin, shaky with a sickly sheen of sweat covering him. However, his drugs are the cleanest in London. His lady friend is a nurse at in a Pediatrics office uptown, and for a little extra, Billy provides me with clean urine samples in case I need one. Lestrade is in the habit of asking after a case, so I need to be prepared. 

“What have you got on, Shez?” Billy returns to washing the same pot. “Dinner with the family?”

I shudder at the thought. “No, just unwinding. The bags?”

“Right, sorry...right.” He dries his hands on his dirty jeans before fishing into the front pocket for two small baggies. 

He might have the best drugs, but the worst memory. I hand him a wad of bills and pocket the bags.

“Well, love to stay for more scintillating conversation but I must be off.” I nod. 

“Course. Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes.” His eyes blow wide as a hand slaps over his mouth. “Shezza.”

“Happy Christmas, William.” I turn on my heel and make a hasty exit from the kitchen. “Evening Yang.”

Yang barely raises a hand as I leave. The snow falls harder, making already quiet streets nearly desolate. A car has not passed in at least fifteen minutes. That is perfectly fine with me. My goal is to get home and plunge a needle into my arm. The white noise that creeps in between cases is starting hum in my ears. I need to quiet it as soon as possible. 

I look down both ways of the street. Yes, it is quiet but that means no cabs to be found. I will have to shuffle to a main thoroughfare in hopes of hailing one. Walking all the way to Baker Street is not an enticing option. Pulling my collar up over my ears, I round my shoulders against the cold. Perhaps I should have eaten a dumpling or taken some noodles home. I cannot remember the last time I ate. However, I might buy my drugs from Billy, I would not trust the food he touches. 

A quiet London is music to my ears. I listen for the distant wail of an alarm, but nothing. I can hear each snowflake pile up the cars, the street, and the rooftops. If I had not been so desperate for the sting of a needle, I might have wandered the peaceful streets for hours, learning its secrets and hidden treasures. 

I take a shortcut down a dark side street that I would normally avoid at night. The wind bites so bitterly that even the most harden criminals are most likely parked on a bar stool. Muted light from the windows above spill onto the snow to guide my way. Voices float up from an alleyway off the street. They appear conversational, and I pay no mind. Maybe I could ask for a smoke. The cold stings my lungs in a clean and unpleasant manner. As I draw closer, the tone is definitely menacing from the alley. Two heavies and one victim. 

“You need to pay up, mate…” a tobacco-roughen voice growls.

“Oof,” a soft spoken voice groans as a fist makes contact with a soft fleshy area - probably stomach. 

“I’d hate to break hands...or something worse,” a high pitched voice whines. 

This is not my business. My affairs lay under a floorboard in my kitchen, carefully wrapped and packaged in a wooden cigar box. 

I hear the crunch of bones and the smack of knuckles on flesh. A body slams against the brick wall in the alley I am approaching. It’s in my best interest to hurry past. 

With a groan, a man coughs and spits on the ground. I can hear panting as I approach the mouth of the alley.

“Just do it,” a broken voice growls. “Just kill me. You’re only doing the job for me.”

The voice isn’t desperate….it’s angry. This shouldn’t intrigue me, but it does. Slowly, I peek around the corner to see three men looming over a short man kneeling in the snow. The three heavies are mostly in shadow, but their victim is illuminated by a dim spotlight. His fists are curled at his side while he stares down his attackers with a fierce glare. The blood mutes any of the man’s features. So much blood. 

“If you kill him, we don’t get nothing,” a slight man says to a burlier man to his right. The third man glances at his watch nervously. 

I can walk away, just turn back down the road and find a safer path. I’m not a hero and I’m definitely outnumbered. 

I glance back at the man on the ground. Sturdy and compact, definitely a fighter, possible a soldier. He has managed to get in a few decent hits to the slight man and even the heavyset man. Impressive. The spotlight shines in his blond hair with glints of silver and gold. Darker strands stick to his forehead, a mixture of blood, sweat and snow. The shadows under his eyes tell the story of a man that has not slept in a long time. 

“Then I bloody well want you to kill me,” the man snarls and cranes his neck back to expose his stubbled chin and neck. He has no sense of fear, and I do not believe he is only calling a bluff. He knows what these men are capable of, he doesn’t give a fuck. Definitely a soldier.

“I'm not gonna kill ya, but I'll make you wish you was dead,” the heavyset one growls. 

If I'm going to act, it's now. Closing my eyes, I envision the scene in the alley. I hear no click of a gun, but recall the gleam of a blade. The skittish one will run, and the slight one is only looking for another fix. He'll be easy to disarm. Hopefully the victim has a bit of fight in him. Together, the heavyset one can be overcome. 

I muss up my hair and begin to whistle ‘Jingle Bells’ as I round the corner of the alley.   
All four men pause to watch me.

The heavyset man is the first to speak. “Hey, you better fuck off. Nothing for you here.”

“You have a fag,” I slur. “I'm desperate for a smoke.”

“Fuck off, I said,” he warns me.

“C’mon mate. I can smell that someone has one. Won't interrupt your chat.” I keep approaching.

The victim watches me as if I'm the maddest person he's ever seen. I give him the briefest of nod and he knows that I'm not drunk or wanting a cigarette. He leans back on his heels to grab a fistful of snow and wait for my signal.

The nervous one just wants me to leave and fishes in his pocket for a cigarette and lighter. It will be his biggest mistake as I grab his arm as he offers his crushed pack to me. He screams as I twist until I feel a pop. 

Meanwhile, the blond soldier flings fistfuls of snow into the face of the heavyset man who stumbles back a few steps. I don't have much time. The soldier reads my mind and launches himself at the heavy man’s knees and knocks him off balance. With a thud, the bald head hits the brick wall.

Clutching his arm, the nervous one limps away. I knew he'd be the first to flee the scene. The slight man, who had been staring in shock, lunges at me. My fist connects with his nose. It's been awhile since I have boxed without gloves. With a punch to his jaw, my right hand aches. My knuckles will be swollen tomorrow. The thin man staggers back, his fingers scraping on the wall. He spits blood into the white snow.

My soldier straddles the chest of the heavy man and delivers relentless blows wherever he can land them. The bald man attempts to shield himself and flips them both over to gain the upper hand. A flash in the snow catches my eye. 

“Watch out!” I call.

My warning is seconds too late as the heavy man’s thick hand wraps around the knife and slashes the soldier’s arm.

I slam my forehead into the slight man’s nose, and he sinks down like a discarded ragdoll. Despite bleeding from his bicep, the soldier struggles to contain the knife. The bald man gives everything to this struggle. If the soldier had been on his own, he would certainly lose within minutes. I scramble up to kick the heavy man in the side. After two blows, his grip on the knife loosens before it clatters to the ground. 

Quicky, I snatch up the knife and attempt to catch my breath. “Don't move or I will cut your carotid artery and let you die in this alley.” 

He goes perfectly still. The soldier pats down the man’s pockets and coat. “You brought one knife to collect money?”

“Fuck you!” The bald man spits.

The blond soldier punches him squarely in the teeth. “I should gut you right here.”

I look at the knife. “This is too dull to be of any help.”

For the first time, the soldier turns his head to look at me. “Seriously?”

“Yes, I'm shocked it managed to cut through your jacket. There's no way it could possibly get through that layer of fat.” I gesture to heaving midsection of the bald man.

“You're fucking nutters,” the soldier says, but there's a hint of a smile.

The air grows still around us. A distant wail draws closer. Someone must have reported a disturbance.

I offer the soldier my hand. “Police are coming. I know I shouldn't be here and I doubt you want to be as well.”

He stares at my hand suspiciously. Accepting my offer is his best bet at the moment. He crawls off of the fat man, but not before kicking him soundly in the bollocks. The heavy man grabs his crotch and rolls to his side groaning. I'm sure I hear a threat on our lives as he coughs. The sirens draw closer and we need to get out of this alley. 

“Let's go,” I say and make a hasty exit from the alley. “Can you walk?”

Wincing as he pulls himself to his full height, he nods. “Not fast. I might have a cracked rib or two.”

I look at my surroundings. “The police will come from this direction, so let's move in the opposite. Do you live near?”

“What are you doing?” He frowns.

“I’m endeavouring to make my evening more interesting.” 

“I’m staying with my sister a few blocks from here.” He limps beside me.

“I’m guessing she would be affected by your appearance.” I glance over to his blood covered face.

“She’s away for the holiday,” he sniffs.

“She left you to your own devices over Christmas?” I ask.

“Well, I don’t think she really wanted me to crash her sofa...so yeah...she went on a minbreak.” He pauses to catch his breath. His eyes dart down the street for any trouble. “Uh, thanks back there.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” I extend my hand.

He wipes his hand on damp jeans before grasping mine firmly. I can't tell if it's because his skin is frozen or the high from the fight, but his grip sends a shiver up my arm and down my spine.

“John Watson.” He takes a deep breath before he continues down the street.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” I ask.

“Pardon?” He freezes.

“Where you were stationed, Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

John blinks into my face. Snowflakes collect on his face. An overwhelming desire to lick them off his blond lashes nearly sweeps my legs from under me. That reaction is not welcomed. 

Of course, he wants an explanation. They always do.

“I can hear your dog tags clink under your shirt. Your posture and eyes are always ready for combat. While you aren't currently groomed for service, your haircut suggests that it was cut to military regulation not more than two and a half months ago. You've been home for four months, but have not seen action in seven months.” My eyes sweep over him. He favours his right hand though he's left handed. “Not since the wound to your left side, I'll say shoulder.”

John's mouth hangs open. “That was amazing, almost spooky.” He frowns. “Are you with those blokes back there? Do you know Richie?”

Oh if he's into Itchy Richie, more blokes like the three we just saw will follow soon enough.

“Know of him, but never had the misfortune,” I say.

His eyes sweep over me. “You look a bit posh to even have heard of him. What are you doing walking down a dark side road on Christmas Eve?”

I chuckle lightly. “Says the man who's bleeding…”

“Right, right. But how do you know so much about me?.” He pauses again. 

“I simply observed. You told me everything I needed to know about you. It's a bit of a talent I possess,” I say proudly.

“It's amazing,” he repeats and continues on his way.

“That's not what most people say,” I mutter.

“Yeah?”

I nod. “They tell me to fuck off.”

John smiles and my stomach flips a few times. The feeling is unwelcomed as I don't ‘do’ attraction. Sex is biological and rarely necessary with another person. Yet this short soldier covered in his own blood is affecting me. This is dangerous indeed. While he might not be homosexual, he has experienced before. I had seen his eyes take an appreciative sweep over me. He thinks I'm posh, but he's also attracted to me.

 

“Do you have something to drink at your place?” I ask.

“Harry is a functioning alcoholic, so we have a variety,” he replies. “Just up around the corner here.”

Blue and white lights flash down the next street. John freezes.

“Let's hurry,” I suggest. “You look a fright.”

“Right,” he agrees, but winces with his quickening pace.

“I need to look at your arm. Do you have any antibiotics?” I ask.

“Why would you think I'd have antibiotics?” He stops.

I raise an eyebrow. “You are a doctor, are you not?”

He shakes his head. “How could you possibly know that?”

I point to the pocket of his coat. “I can see your badge from the clinic with your photo. I think it's fair to assume you are the Dr. John Watson on the ID?”

He glances down. “Right. Of course.” He points to windows garishly lined with blinking coloured lights. “This is me.”

“Hardly,” I utter under my breath while he fishes in pocket for the keys.

As we climb the stairs, my nose is assaulted with the heavy scent of pine. John unlocks the door and pushes it open to allow me to step in first.

The Spirit of Christmas has visited this flat and clearly vomited on every surface. Lighted miniature villages, statues of Father Christmas, stockings, more lights all lead to a Christmas tree stuffed in the corner of the room. It's too full for the room as the branches spill over an armchair beside it.

“Harry loves Christmas.” John winces as he shrugs off his coat.

Immediately, I rush over to help him.

“Thanks,” he mutters. He gestures to a row of hooks on the wall. “Any one will do. I'd return the favour, but I'm a bit roughed up.”

“It's fine. Can you fetch your kit? I want to see to that gash on your arm.” I hang my coat beside his and try not to marvel how well they suit one another.

I rub my hands together and have a look around the flat. Handmade throws cover the sofa and armchairs. Every surface is cluttered with pictures - mostly of two women embracing. The woman with long dark hair smiles easily and openly. She looks one moment from a laugh. Her companion, a woman who resembles John but with a fuller face, smiles but it’s more of a grimace. Her worry lines run deep; and her complexion is a bit waxy and grey. Probably aching for a drink. She loves the dark haired woman but isn't certain the relationship will last. 

“Harry and Clara,” John says as he sets a worn leather doctor’s bag on the table. “They're at Clara’s family home for the holiday.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Leaving you here on your own?”

He sits on the sofa. “I was invited but declined. Wasn't up for celebrating.”

I only nod and watch him pull out bottles of alcohol, hydrogen peroxide and plasters.

“I don't think I'll need antibiotics,” he attempts to roll the sleeve of the plaid shirt he's wearing.

“You'll have to partially remove it so I can tend to the cut,” I say.

He gives me a wary glance before unbuttoning his shirt. “It's not that bad.”

“The sleeve of your coat suggests otherwise.”

He pauses and looks at me. “I don't even know you, and I'm going to just undress in front of you?”

“I assure you that I didn't save your life just to take it.” I wave my hand casually about the flat. “There is absolutely nothing here of any real value, and I have no designs on forcing myself on you.”

John lets out a relieved but short snort. “I'd like to see you try.”

“Really?” I challenge, but instantly regret it. 

John holds my gaze, his eyes slipping to my lips before catching my eye. His pupils dilate a little.

“Let's clean this,” I clear my throat and roll up my shirtsleeves. “You must have gloves?”

“Uh sure. Are you a doctor?” he asks.

“No, but I know my way around a laboratory and the human body.” I reach inside the bag. 

My fingers graze a syringe and I'm instantly reminded of my original plans for the evening. The powder sits in my coat pocket and here’s a syringe. I just need a candle and spoon. I steal a glance at John as he reveals the pale skin of his chest with each button undone. Suddenly, I'm thirsty for something - is it the syringe or the flesh before me?

“Come again?” John cocks his head.

I pull on the latex gloves with a pop and snap. “I'm a consulting detective.”

He chuckles. “A what?”

I roll my eyes with some annoyance. “I consult for the police when they are out of their depth which is always. I am the world’s sole consulting detective as there is no one like me.”

“That I believe.” John hisses as he peels the shirt from his injured arm.

“Allow me.” His skin is warm beneath my cold fingers. “Sorry.” I rub my hands together and try to not let my eyes wander over his exposed chest. Carefully, I pull the shirt away from the jagged wound on John's bicep. The blood has clotted and begun to dry. Some of the torn fibers of the shirt are embedded within the gash.

“Fuck!” he growls as I slowly pull the cloth away from his skin. 

The guttural noises emanating from his throat should not affect me as they do, but my cock definitely twitches like it hasn't in ages. For God’s sake, not now, I admonish myself.

“I apologise for causing you pain,” I reply earnestly.

“It's not your fault. This is all my own bloody doing.” He shakes his head. 

“How much money did they want from you?” I grab the damp flannel from the table.

“Fifteen grand,” he scowls.

“Bit of gambling problem then.” 

“More like an unlucky problem. I don’t typically bet but I was desperate for a bit of cash to move out. I don’t fancy living with Harry for much longer. Her marriage is tenuous at best. Having her deadbeat brother lying about on her sofa doesn't help.” He winces as I gently wipe the blood from his skin. “I took what little I get from pension and made some bad decisions.” He sighs heavily. “So stupid.”

“Most of the world is filled with idiots so..” I see his gaze harden as he looks up to meet my eye. “Don't regard yourself too harshly.”

“Do you get hit a lot?”

I nod. “Depends.”

“I bet you have your share of enemies,” he muses.

“You've no idea.” The corner of my mouth twitches as I think of the long list. “Why did you say that you wanted to die?”

He frowns. “I don’t think those were my exact words.”

“No, but the sentiment was there.” I pause. “You hate being home, you’d rather be on the front lines. You feel useless here…”

“I only agreed to let you patch me up, not analyse me.” He tugs his arm out of grip. The movement has torn the wound again, and fresh blood collects to drip from his arm. 

“I’m just making conversation.” Carefully, I clean the gnarly looking gash. 

“Well...don’t. You’re really rubbish at it,” he says pointedly.

“Fair enough.” I look closer at the jagged flesh. “You were cut with a dull and dirty steak knife.”

He looks at his arm. “How can you tell?”

“I don't think you can see it from your angle, but the cut is serrated, not clean. The end didn't pierce you, but the edges cut into your skin. If the knife had been sharp, the wound would have been jagged but not like this.”

“You know a lot about knife cuts,” he smiles.

“Part of the profession. I study all types of wounds, on corpses, victims and suspects. All are clues.” I peer closer and my nasal passages fill with the sweet smell of sweat mingled with the acidic tang of blood. My head spins with...want. Focus, Holmes. 

“Oh Christ,” he gasps.

I look up from cleaning to find him staring at my arms. Following his gaze, I realise that I've rolled my shirtsleeves past my elbows; and the evidence of my favourite hobby.

“So I'm letting a drug addict take care of me?” He points to the bruises in the crooks of my arms.

“I'm a drug user. Addict is such a strong term.” A lump forms in my throat. 

He shuffles a few inches away to take me in, head to toe. “Those are a few weeks old. How often do you ‘use’?” 

“Only when required.” I pull a roll of gauze from his bag.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“This coming from a man who has ingested at least four pints of beer and three shots of cheap whiskey, only to leave himself at the mercy of three street thugs over fifteen thousand pounds,” I snap. 

John's glare holds and does not waver.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Fine. My brain never stops. I deduce all the time. I'm always observing, I can't turn it off. On a walk, trip to the shops, even in the men's toilet. It. Never. Stops. It slows when I have a case, something that forces my brain to focus.” I sigh heavily feeling the weight of my talent bleed into his bloodied hands. “When I'm off a case, my brain speeds out of control again. It tears itself apart, and takes me with it. The drugs make it stop. Everything slows to a soft hum and I can function as a human...or close to one.”

The hard lines in John's face soften. “So, you get high to be normal? Are you on a case now?”

“No.” 

“Are you high?” He asks.

“No. As you expertly deduced, it's been a few weeks.” I neglect to tell him about the bag in my coat. 

“Are you itching for it now?” He searches my face.

Against my will, I feel my lips turn up into a grin. “Not at the moment.”

John purses his lips. With a tight nod, he inches closer. “Don't wrap my arm too tight.”

We spend the next few minutes in a strange but comfortable silence as he allows me to wrap his bicep with soft gauze. He shivers as my fingertips graze his rib cage. 

“Do you think anything is broken?” I ask.

“No, bruised maybe..” 

“Let me look. If so, I can wrap that.” I look up. “Unless you'd rather go to the A & E.”

John’s pink tongue darts out to lick his cracked lips. “No, you can check.”

I swallow the lump that had formed earlier. “Remove your shirt. I'll get another flannel.”

“The bathroom is…” His voice trails off as I move to the bathroom without direction. 

Grabbing a reindeer covered flannel from the towel rack, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look a fright. A bruise is blossoming on my cheekbone and my hair looks like a rat’s nest. I turn on the tap to wet my hands in the vain hope to tame my unruly curls. Why am I trying? What am I hoping to accomplish? I dry my face with the image of a cartoon Father Christmas, then wet the reindeer flannel for John. I realise that what I want to sink into my skin is no longer a needle filled with drugs to make my brain purr and my blood vessels to sing; I want John. I want to absorb him, and that desire troubles me.

I take the damp flannel but nearly choke when I see John sat on the sofa; his bare chest decorated in the blues, greens, reds and yellows from the Christmas tree. Taking a deep breath, I sit beside him. 

“Let's clean you up a bit.” I hand him the flannel.

He flashes a brief smile. “Right. I'm covered in blood.”

Slowly, he wipes his face. Despite all the dirt and dried blood, the damage is minimal. He's lucky to have escaped with just a black eye and a split lip. 

While he cleans, I inspect his ribs. Heat rises to my face as I see two angry red boot marks on each side of his torso. If I see those arseholes again, they will pay dearly.

“May I?” My hand hovers over his rib cage.

He nods. “I don't think they are broken but to be sure.”

A spark ignites between us when my fingers touch his skin. I feel him take a deep breath.

“Does this hurt?” I ask but do not remove my hand.

“Yes, I mean, no...no pain,” he shakes his head. 

Gently, I press into the red marks. 

“That's uncomfortable,” he gasps.

“Hmm, definitely bruised. Do you have something for pain?” I press my palm to his back and feel him swallow roughly. 

“Yes, I'll get it,” he says quickly.

I lean close. “Don't worry. I'm sure whatever it is that it's not my flavour.”

His pulse quickens under my fingers. “Sorry, it's just…”

“The evidence of my indiscretions. You'd be foolish to not be wary. It proves you've not suffered head trauma.” I grin.

He licks his lips again, eyes trained on mine. This is wading into dangerous waters. If things get physical, I may never be able to untangle myself from his burden. I feel myself slipping like I had many years ago, but it’s different this time. Now, I have decades of experience that should prevent my fall. However, every inch that exists between me and him feels too much. My toes dig into the carpet to root myself so I won’t lunge forward. Yes, he is interested and attracted - but would he welcome a gesture?

“I could use a drink. How about you?” He stands. 

“I'll join you. It might help you sleep.” I settle back against the cushions.

John quickly moves down the hall to what I suspect is the kitchen. I close my eyes and burn the vision of his torso into my mind. Firm chest. Softer belly, had been tighter while in service. Taut shoulders. And the wound, a starburst of knotted skin on his shoulder. What would it feel like under my fingertips, or my tongue?

My eyes pop open. I am just fooling myself with these mad thoughts. I do not ‘do’ feelings like this, this want or desire to experience flesh and heat. Sex is a messy proposition under the best circumstance - which this is not. 

“It’s cheap vodka. Clara has cleaned out most of the booze.” John has slipped into a new shirt, yet it hangs open, like a book waiting to be opened, read and analysed.

“Your sister is an active alcoholic, yes.” I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees.

He smirks. “Of course you would know that. My sister has been making an attempt at sobriety for the holiday season. It’s a process.” 

He sets down two juice glasses with ice and pours a generous amount of clear liquid in both. 

“Liberal pour for an addict,” I remark cheekily.

“You said you are just a user. Who am I to judge? I got blind stinking drunk and begged a bunch of thugs to kill me.” He clinks his glass to mine. “Happy Christmas.”

I cast a gaze to the tree. “I never celebrate. I rather despise Christmas and all its sentimentalities.”

“Santa didn’t give you want you wanted?” he asks.

“You could say that.” I tip back the glass and let the vodka burn my throat. It tastes a grade above rubbing alcohol, but it should still numb my fraying nerves. 

He sits beside me, and I feel his body heat. “The shine of the holidays has dulled for me too. I was happy to be left alone.” He turns his head toward me. “But I am glad you are here.”

“Do you make it habit of inviting strange men to your sister’s flat?” I cock an eyebrow.

Again, his tongue slips over his lips. Definite interest.

“Not for quite some time. I’m out of practise…” His body turns in my direction. 

“But you were in the army. Loads of men,” I say.

“Yeah, they frown upon that.” He bites his bottom lip. “It’s been so long…”

I lunge forward. It’s not a kiss, more like mouths attacking one another. Our lips don’t press together gently, with tentative longing. It’s aggressive, angry and utterly amazing. His strong hand cups the back of my head to hold me in the kiss, as if I would pull away now. My hands slide over the hot marks on his torso, along the cool planes of chest to wrap around his back. The tongue that licked his own lips moments before, explores my mouth hungrily. This is not a cinema kiss, neat and perfect. His scruff burns my chin. It’s wet and sloppy, filling the flat with smacking sounds and moans. It’s fucking perfect. 

My cock throbs with its own pulse. One hand tries to alleviate the pressure in my trousers, while the other holds on to John for dear life. I’m sinking and he is my preserver. 

His breath is ragged when he pulls away. His mouth is red and wet. “Would I be too forward to ask you stay the night?”

“Are you sure you want that?” I whisper.

“It could be a bad idea, but it’s the only one I have right now.” He palms my crotch and rubs. 

I capture his mouth again and press my hips into his hand, practically grinding against him. “What do you want to do, Dr. Watson?”

He gives my cock a squeeze. “I want to bend you over this sofa and fuck you into Christmas morning.”

“Why don’t you, then?” I challenge.

With another shot of vodka, his fingers make quick work on the buttons of my shirt. He’s careful to not tear, but I shiver as the cool air hits my skin. His mouth soon follows leaving trails of his saliva along my neck and chest. His teeth graze my nipples causing me to hiss in pleasure. I lean back against the soft cushions of the sofa and allow him to make art on my body. Every kiss, lick, suck and bite marks my pale skin. I push back, wanting him to bite harder, to press his fingers into my skin so that I can remember him for days. I press my lips to the scar, wanting to reopen the wound just to taste his blood. 

John hooks his leg over to straddle me. “Where did you come from, Sherlock Holmes?” His short fingers tangle in my hair while his tongue invades my mouth. 

I rock my hips up to feel his clothed erection against mine, and my mind fills with a hot white light. It’s been so long since I have felt a need like I feel now. I’ve certainly had sex before, and have even desired it on a very rare occasion. Most of the time, I’ve used it as a means to get something I want - drugs, mostly. I can barely remember a time when I only wanted to be close to someone. 

Now, I want to cut myself open so John can crawl inside me. John, a man that I have known for less than a few hours, is the center of the universe. 

“Get these off,” he growls while clawing at my trousers.

“Same for you.” I nip at his neck. 

“Fuck.” He peels himself from me to kick off his shoes. 

My fingers tremble as I struggle with my trousers. After much shuffling in our own corners, we stand face to face completely naked. His cock is darker and thicker than mine, standing out from a nest of dark blonde curls. Instinctively, I fall to me knees and bury my nose in the wiry curls to breathe him in. I want to take him down my throat and suck him dry. 

“God, Sherlock,” his nails dig into my scalp. “No...don’t…”

I look up. “You don’t like oral gratification?”

“Christ, who doesn’t? But the sight of you like this will end our night sooner than I want. I won’t last a minute,” he says breathlessly. 

With a grin, I slide my body along his as I stand until we are pressed together - hips to chest. “I wouldn’t want that…” 

His arms wrap around me. My hands cup his face as if I’m the most precious China in the world. We kiss slowly, completely. It’s not the gnashing of lips and teeth like earlier. Our tongues dance and stroke. My chin is raw from his beard scraping against my skin. I shiver thinking of how it would feel if his face had been buried in my arse, opening me, tasting me. My cock brushes against his belly while his throbs on my thigh. I’m afraid if I touch him, we will both explode. And he’s promised me so much more. 

His hands slip past the small of my back to grab two handfuls of my arse. I hum my approval against his mouth. Fingertips graze my entrance. Against my will, I gasp.

“Are you okay? If you're not sure.” He pulls hands away.

“No, I'm sure. It's just been awhile,” I explain.

“How can that be?” he murmurs. “You were made for sex, with that body and your voice. You have to have hundreds of men and women clamouring to be with you.”

“Perhaps, but I have no interest in most people.” I'm desperate to have his hands on me. All this talk of how fuckable I seem has me craving that moment when he and I become one. “You however, John Watson, interest me greatly. You're fascinating.” 

I press my lips to his neck and suck hard. He lets out a half gasp and part moan. Those fingers find me again, and begin to press into my body. I'm ready for anything he offers. My body does not fight him, but greedily accepts him. 

“We need….something,” he whispers against my skin.

“Do you have ointment?” I ask.

“Let me find something sexier than antibiotic ointment.” He kisses me before running off down the hall.

I stand naked and alone in a sitting room choking with Christmas cheer. I pour myself another shot of vodka while I wait for John's return. Down the hall, I hear him mumbling and slamming cabinet doors. His feet pad against the floor as he moves further down the hall. I look down at this body John finds so enticing, and I don’t understand it. Suddenly, I am ashamed of the marks on my arms. It shows my weakness despite all my attempts to be cavaliere about my drug use. I’m a certified genius and fully aware that injecting drugs is an idiotic thing to do - no matter what I try to convince myself otherwise. 

John returns, huffing and flushed from his hunt. “Here are our choices.” He holds up a bottle of olive oil and a bottle of baby oil. 

“The baby oil will smell more pleasant,” I offer. 

“I agree.” He presses his chest to my back and nips along my shoulder. My flagging erection fills again. His hand reaches around me to brush his fingertips along the length of my cock. “What do you want?”

I press my arse back against him. “I want you fuck me, not gently. I want to feel you for days.”

He spins me around with a growl and kisses me hungrily. “God, I want to taste you so much….every inch of you.”

I chuckle lightly. “I won’t last…”

“Then, we’ll save that for another day.” His words sound like a promise. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” I crane my neck back to lean against his shoulder as his fingers wrap around my cock. 

“Then get on sofa on all fours. You say you hate Christmas, but I want you to remember this one. I want to those Christmas lights dance on your skin when I sink into you…” he says huskily in my ear.

I shiver at the thought, but scramble to sprawl on the sofa as he instructs. All I can see is the bloody Christmas tree blinking before me. I feel his weight behind me on the sofa. The sensation of his tongue on my left arse cheek causes me to jump a little. He licks closer to….

“Not today,” I growl. My cock is already purple and throbbing painfully. If his tongue goes anywhere near my entrance, I will come on this ugly holiday throw so hard that I’ll see stars. “Please, get on with it.”

He chuckles and smacks my arse. “Have another date?”

“Yes, with my right hand if you don’t fuck me soon,” I snap. 

“Then I guess we’ll skip the prep work?” he asks.

“I don’t need or want it.” I want it to burn and sting. I need to feel every inch of him fill and stretch me until his is fully seated. Then I want him to pound until I beg for release. 

“Okay, let me know if I need to stop or if anything is too much.” He plants a kiss on my lower back. 

I hear the rip of a condom foil, followed by the pop of the baby oil bottle. 

“I wish I could take a picture of you like this. So fucking gorgeous….” he sighs. 

His finger smears some oil around my entrance, then a low groan as he oils himself up. I glance over my shoulder to see him take his cock in his hand.

“Eyes on the tree, Sherlock,” he orders. 

I turn my eyes forward and really look at the bloody tree. I had failed to notice all the ornaments, most of them old and done by hand. I see paper mache balls, painted wooden sticks, and cardboard stars - all signed by a young John Watson. His past is twinkling right before me. 

John slowly fills me, and it hurts and burns like I had known it would. My fingers dig into the arm with every thrust forward. I can’t help but push back wanting more. He’s holding back, and I need that feral lust. I want to be covered in his sweat. 

“Are you comfortable back there? Taking a snooze before actually fucking me into Christmas morning like you promised,” I taunt him and it works. 

One hand snakes up to the back of my neck to clamp down hard on my shoulder while his hips move at a punishing pace. The flat fills with the scent of latex and baby oil, and the sounds of our bodies slapping together. I don’t even pretend to be quiet. I moan and swear because it feels amazing to be taken like this. I never felt like I was missing sex until John touched my body. Now, this is all I want. Every night, his body on mine, pushing it to a pleasure drugs cannot provide. I am thankful that I’m not high so I can feel every fingernail digging into my hip, and every kant of his hips. 

“I’m close,” he pants. “God, you’re so tight, so amazing, so fucking amazing…”

My toes curl as the heat in my belly spreads lower. I won’t last much longer either.

“Touch me, God, please touch me,” I beg.

His hand releases my shoulder to wrap around my cock. He barely pulls before I’m coming all over his hand and the ugly holiday throw. I clench around him as I ride my own orgasm and feel his thrusts become short and erratic.

“Fuck, Sherlock...Oh God...oh yes, Sherlock…” He says my name in a way no one ever has. Like a whisper or a prayer or a vow. He kisses my back, my shoulder blades, and my neck. For a moment, I feel owned and almost precious. I’m not a genius or party trick. I am John’s and nothing more.

We collapse and untangle only to lie together on the sofa and tangle again. We kiss languidly and caress each other’s skin. Those touches lead to more heated kisses and John climbing on top of me. Another condom foil falls to the floor and he oils himself again. This time, I can see his face as he enters me. I feel each thrust go deeper. My heels dig into his back, guiding him and coaxing him because I have lost the capacity of words. The only word that my lips can form is “John” over and over. When I come the second time, it covers our bellies. When he comes again, I can see his face, and it is beautiful. 

John pants against my neck while his heart thunders beneath my hand.

“It's been a very, very long time since I've managed that,” he gasps.

“I'm pleased I inspire such response,” I smile. Contentment embraces me as his head rests on my chest, our limbs entwined. 

“It's probably been since university.” He gives me a squeeze. 

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Have plans?” He pokes my ribs.

“I just want to be sure that you kept your vow and it is indeed Christmas morning.” I give his hair a playful tug.

He struggles the look at the watch on his wrist. “It's four in the morning, so I think I've held up my end.”

“How long will you need to rest before…” My fingertips skirt down his spine to stop at his round arse. I can only hope to know that pleasure.

He laughs softly. “At least a few hours and some coffee. I should get us a flannel.” 

We’re sticky from sweat, oil and bodily fluids. He pushes up and gets on shaky legs. Running a hand through his hair, he smiles down at me. 

“I’m dizzy.” He shakes his head.

I tuck my hands behind my head. “You were drinking.”

His eyes sweep over my body. “Or it could be the two rounds of fantastic sex.”

I watch his round arse walk down the hall. It’s then that I realise how absurd this night has been. Not more than eight hours ago, I had solved a case and was heading home to fill my veins with poison. Now, I am a giddy adolescent, drunk on infatuation. I’m lying on a sofa in a stranger's flat, yet I feel like I’m finally home. 

Quickly, I retrieve my mobile from the front pocket in my trousers. Despite the time, I send Mycroft an order. I don’t expect a response at four AM on Christmas morning, but it is Mycroft. He protests, not surprising. After two more messages, he relents with ‘As you wish. Happy Christmas’. I turn off my phone and toss it on top of my clothes. 

John returns with two damp flannels. He doesn’t simply hand it to me, but carefully cleans my stomach with the warm cloth. 

“You’re welcome to a shower,” he says.

“Before I go?” I ask.

He blinks a few times. “Yeah, if you want.”

I am on my way to sabotaging the entire night. It’s my nature to toss a molotov cocktail into anything promising. I take a step back, and nearly force myself to think like someone else. Like John, for instance. 

“You had invited me to stay the night. Is that offer still valid?” I prop myself up on my elbows. 

John sits beside me on the sofa. “Of course, but only if you want.” His hand rests on my stomach. “I want you to stay.”

I cover his hand with my own. “Then I will.”

“My bed is only a twin, so….I can sleep on the sofa and you take the bed,” he offers. 

“Where do you sleep?” I ask.

“The sofa.” He ducks his head. “I hate that bed.”

“Then I will stay here with you.” I sit up. “After a shower.”

He smirks. “Is that an invitation?”

My eyes travel from his indigo eyes, to the star on his shoulder, and across the soft middle above his hips. Though flaccid, his cock still makes my mouth water. After we’ve showered and slept - more like him sleeping while I search memorise every line in his face - I plan to know his musky taste when I take him into my mouth to wake him as the sun filters through hideous lace curtains. I want it all and for as long as he’ll stay with me. 

“No, this is an invitation. You hate staying here. Come home with me tomorrow.” I caress his thigh.

“What? For the night?” he asks.

“For as long as you want. I have a second bedroom if you wish privacy, but you are very welcome to stay with me, in my room.” 

John scratches his chin slowly. I see the wheels turning in his head. “But we've just known each other for all of six hours.”

“That didn't stop you from having sex with me.” I grin. “I think it's fair to say that we provide mutual comfort for each other. I know what I want so why should I waste time in stating that?”

“And you want me?” he asks.

“Of course, that's what I said.”

He searches my face with a strange smile. “Yes, God yes.”

“Splendid. Shower?” I swing my feet to the floor.

“Yes. I'm feeling crusty.” He glances down at his stomach.

“John, you should know that I play the violin at all hours, and sometimes I don't talk for days when I'm on a case. I think potential flatmates should know the worst about one another.” I stand.

He snorts. “You inject drugs, and you think a violin would bother me.”

I cover the bruises with my hand. “I will endeavour to curtail that activity. While in your company this evening, the need has abated.”

“We'll work on that.” He offers his hand and leads me down the hall.

* * * * * * * *

After a shower, we curled up on the sofa. We slept, well John slept while I watched him. In the morning, John cooked breakfast and I actually ate. We packed all his things into a large olive Army bag and a backpack. He left a note for his sister, and we were off to Baker Street. 

Once at home, John marched his belongings into my room. While he put away his clothes, I pried the floorboards up in the kitchen to retrieve my kit. Quietly, I slipped upstairs to place it the heating grate behind a large dresser. I quickly closed the behind me and returned to sitting area to wait for John.

I can't predict the future. I don't know how long John will stay, or if I'll eventually drive him off. It could be next week or never. Until then, he is all I need. And perhaps a serial killer.


End file.
